


Checkmate

by Piyo13



Series: Checkmate [1]
Category: Shingeki no Kyojin | Attack on Titan
Genre: Chess, M/M, Manga Spoilers, You Have Been Warned, because i can and because i want to, i am indeed using the chessmaster trope here
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-12
Updated: 2014-01-01
Packaged: 2018-01-03 01:09:42
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 13,699
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1063869
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Piyo13/pseuds/Piyo13
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He wonders, briefly, when it started. Which of them had taken initiative, made the first move. </p><p>He wonders, longer, how it had escalated to become what it had; how innocent interaction had become this game.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. {Pawn to E4}

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [You might consider this song as you read, it was my muse and pulled me out of writer's block.](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=IL5z-o4zsfE)  
>  Contains manga spoilers where Erwin is concerned.

Erwin walks to his quarters, his boots clicking softly against the worn, cobbled floors that compromise the seat of the Scouting Legion. It's a magnificent chair, and he thinks that someday, he would like to renovate the castle. Make it a bit airier, fix some of the broken stained-glass windows and eliminate the drafting that occurs in winter. He'd bring its outer walls back to the soft white that occasionally reveals itself under Levi's hand (but only for seconds, and only in the smallest of spaces; cleaning takes time, after all, and time is the most nonrenewable resource he has ever seen). Someday, he'd commission a tapestry with the wings of the Scouting Legion on it, to commemorate the fallen. 

Someday ( _someday,_  he thinks bitterly to himself.  _Noun. A day in which the funds we get aren't channeled directly to funeral homes and new uniforms to replace the fallen's_ ). 

The papers in his hand crinkle, and he sighs, the only sign of the immense stress upon him that he allows himself to show the world. His pace quickens, eager to simply fall into bed and sleep (he shouldn't, really; the reports have piled up while he was planning and executing the most recent mission, there's really no time for sleep- but this is the third day he's told himself that, and even he recognizes that his body has limits) (the raging, omnipresent headache is a good reminder nonetheless). 

The path he chooses takes him next to the large, empty hall, no longer quite so empty, that the new recruits have converted into their recreational center. Usually it's filled to the brim with noise and laughter- happiness and camaraderie, and the occasional illicit alcohol which none of the senior officers actually make any move to confiscate. Tonight, there's a sort of hushed silence about it, and for a moment, he doesn't know what to think (in his experience, silence is either that of the air before a storm or that of graveyards, cold and damp and clinging to one's skin). But then a loud 'ooooh' is heard, and his breath releases in a huff of relief he hadn't noticed he'd held. 

He walks to the archway which separates the recreational room from the hallway, and after a moment's hesitation, steps inside. Most of the room is empty; its inhabitants are gathered haphazardly in one corner, semi-circled around a small table. After another second of hesitation- is it really right to intrude on their fun, given who he is?- he steps closer, peering over several heads to get a clear look. Seated in the center, hunched over a small table with a chess set between them, are two of the newly recruited members. He recognizes both on sight; names continue to elude him (he hasn't had time to sit down and look in-depth at all the new members' files and learn their names- that's something that must be done as well, only he's already made up his mind to get sleep tonight) (the thought of Things Not Done almost sends him out of the room, and it is in that moment that he realizes just how strong his grounding curiosity really is).

Then the blond makes a move and leans back, satisfied, a smile gracing his lips. There is a moment of stunned silence, then his opponent curses, the onlookers erupting into loud cheers and guffaws. Unsure what to make of the scene before him, he taps the shoulder of someone near him. 

"What do you- oh! Commander!" Guiltily, the soldier attempts to salute, but Erwin brushes it away. 

"If I'm not intruding too much, may I ask what is happening here?" 

"Yessir! Um, Armin is wicked good at chess, and then someone challenged him- I forget who, sorry- and he beat him in three moves and now  _everyone's_  trying to beat him, or at least make him make more than three moves, only no one's succeeded yet." The soldier pauses, a hand scratching her hair absently. "I guess you could say we're all kinda rooting against him," she finishes, and Erwin nods, his full attention turning back to the center of the circle. 

The blonde’s- Armin's- opponent is gone, replaced by someone else. Armin had taken black, and his opponent had already made a move. A rather bad one, Erwin thinks, his mind already at work figuring out how to best bring down the opponent ( _funny_ , he thinks in the back of his mind,  _that you should root for the one no one else supports. When else have you done_ that _, I wonder?_ ). He glances away from the board, taking in Armin's expression of concentration as he, too, clearly plots his opponent's demise. Then he takes his own first move and- well, it's not what Erwin would have done, definitely not what he was expecting, but he can see that it might have potential, if the opponent just moves-

-and the opponent does, because clearly Armin knows him and the way he thinks. Armin's next move is almost instantaneous. He's planned this, Erwin can tell from the blank expression on his face, giving nothing away. Or rather, almost nothing. Erwin fancies that he can see a smiled tucked into the corner of mouth, a self-assured victory (which it is, two moves later, when Armin settled back with a 'checkmate' tumbling from his lips). 

His opponent shakes hands, and Armin stretches his hands, looking around expectantly for someone else to challenge him. His eyes open slightly as he makes eye contact with Erwin, but by then someone else has already stepped forward, and Armin redirects his gaze. He doesn't make a show of thinking about his moves this time (because that's what it must have been, last time, a show, because lightning-fast moves like these surpass thinking long and hard and leap straight to the zone of intuition) (or maybe Erwin just wishes to think that he's not quite as alone in his _modus operandi_  as he's come to believe over the course of his life). 

Once again, Armin declares a checkmate three moves in, resetting the board as his opponent curses and moves out of the way. Armin's eyes flick back to where Erwin is standing, then back to the board, and Erwin reads it as an invitation. 

"Don't mind if I do," he says, and suddenly the crowd of faces is looking at him, mumbled whispers wondering where the hell the Commander came from and what he's doing and why. The only one Erwin can't answer is why- what  _is_  the Commander of the Scouting Legion doing, ignoring his papers (placed gingerly, facedown, on the side of the table, one edge tucked snugly under the chessboard to hold them in place) and sleep in favor of a  _game_  with one of his newest soldiers- his newest  _pawns_? Nonetheless, Erwin sits down, pulling the chair up closer, his elbows resting on his knees, his fingertips crossed just under his chin. He takes in the board for a moment. White is facing him, expectant (so Armin prefers to watch his opponents first; a retaliatory tactician), the pieces all perfectly centered in their respective squares. 

Erwin moves his pawn to E4. 

Quickly, Armin moves his own pawn, but only a single space, and Erwin wonders what he wants done with  _that_  at the same time that he frees a knight, sending it over the barrier and into enemy lands. Armin moves another pawn and Erwin takes one, but that is something Armin had clearly anticipated, if the way he uses the loss to unleash his bishop and take Erwin's knight is any clue. They continue in a series of lightning-fast moves, the noise of stunned spectators ( _"look at how fast they're playing...!"_ ) fading into a quiet background murmur as the entire world centers itself into the checkered slat of wood between them. 

It's been a while since Erwin's played chess like this. Not because he doesn't play chess, but because there is no one there who can play on his level. Hanji, though brilliant, isn't a strategist; her intelligence lies in piecing together puzzles with fragments of unknown, in unbridled investigation and endless curiosity. She's a good squad leader, but she's not a strategist. Levi, on the other hand, is a fighter. He has street smarts, and he knows how to put them into use, but he's not capable of directing more than his squad. It's not that he's lacking in any sort of intellectual ability, either; it's simply that he focuses narrowly, seeing the trees rather than the forest. Mike is the only one who's been able to challenge Erwin at chess before, but even then, it was nothing like the game Erwin is playing now, as he extricates himself from the third 'check' in the last three minutes of play, sacrificing his right-hand rook to Armin's predatory knight. 

The game lasts another five minutes, until Erwin uses his queen, counterbalanced by his black bishop, to trap Armin's king in a wide net. Armin's eyes widen slightly, and then he grins, extending a hand to Erwin. Erwin smiles slightly back, taking the proffered hand and shaking it, somewhat surprised by the strength of the grip. 

"Good game," Armin says, still smiling, and the babbling of the crowd finds its way back into Erwin's consciousness (" _he beat Armin!" "well of course he did, that's the Commander!" "more than three moves!" "how long was that?" "did you see how fast they were playing?"_ ). Erwin nods. 

"It was a pleasure, Arlert. Now, if you'll excuse me," he says, grabbing the papers and standing up in a single motion, nodding once more at Armin before he turns and leaves, ignoring the multitude of eyes focused on his shoulders (he's used to that) as he exits and turns towards his chambers. The game replays in his mind as he walks, pointing out to himself which moves could have been better made when and how- but the smile hasn't left his face, and it's the contentment at a game of chess well-played that finally lulls him into the first true sleep he's had in days.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have most of this already written, I've just been needing to brush it up... and I figured, since I'm procrastinating on math again, why not?


	2. {Knight to B5}

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Somehow I managed to lost the comments for chapter one, but this is still the soundtrack. (It is for the whole piece, actually...)

It's three nights later that Erwin's route takes him past the recreational center again. He doesn't notice where he's going until the muffled noises become loud noises, and that the warm light cascading over him is a result of the warmly lit atmosphere within the hall.  He pauses in the archway again, curiosity getting the best of him, and he finds himself half-wishing that the chessboard is set up, so that he could have another game. 

His brow furrows mildly at the thought. Not just he; he and  _Armin_  could have another game, because to play without that thrill he'd experienced the other night now seems to him to be unimaginable. Scrapping the entire thought and looking into the room, he notices the board isn't set up (he shoves away the sliver of disappointment that manifests in his gut; it's not as if the soldiers would be keen on fulfilling his every wish anyway, seeing as he's the man who willingly sends them off to their deaths, so why does he feel so let down by the absence of a chessboard? Folly). He also notices Nanaba, currently their supervising officer, walking towards him, query in her eyes. 

She tries to salute, but once again, Erwin waves it off. "Commander, why are- er, how can I help you?" she asks, and Erwin notes the hint of tension in her frame (and wonders when he became used to such a demeanor around him). He settles for raising a brow in the most unthreatening fashion he can.

"I'm just here to see how the new soldiers are settling in, nothing to worry about," he says easily, the authority in his voice making it impossible to question (that's something he's learned a long time ago- show doubt and people will be quick to tear you down; show confidence, no matter how faked, and people will follow you into hell with no questions asked. It's only the rare few that refuse to cow themselves, and it's those few that are most worth keeping near). 

"They're doing quite well, considering how hard they're being worked during the day. They've adapted well- there's even a few card sharks among them," she says, and Erwin makes an appreciative sound, noting her glance at him out of the corner of his eye. "There's also Armin, who's a chess genius..." Erwin repeats his noise from before, waiting for Nanaba to get to the point (a second life lesson- if he waits long enough, he will receive all the answers he ever wanted) (the catch, of course, is that sometimes he doesn't have enough time to wait). "I heard you and him had a match the other day," she finally says, curiosity palpable. Erwin nods. 

"We did. He plays well," he says, roving eyes finally finding the familiar (or is it too early to use that quantifier?) blond head. Armin is deep in discussion, but he's smiling and his eyes are bright (and Erwin is glad that he hasn't been reduced to a shadow yet; glad that the weight of his comrade's deaths hasn't yet become too great a burden for his shoulders to bear; glad that  _he_ , at least, can still laugh). Next to him, Nanaba nods. 

"That he does." Erwin didn't fail to notice the glance she shots him out of the corner of her eye. "He usually brings out the chessboard on Saturdays- or so I've been told. Apparently they made it a tradition back in their trainee cabin, to play chess on Saturdays. Now that they're here, it's more of a competitive sport for _all_ of them." Then Nanaba shakes her head. "At least it helps them think a bit more strategically." 

"Hmm," is all Erwin replies (thinking that, if Armin is consistently as good as he was, then the others aren't learning to think strategically- they're learning to let Armin do that for them; which, on the whole, is probably a good thing- one pack can only have so many alphas, after all, and it's better they have one they can trust). He allows himself a few more seconds of observation, before angling himself to fully face Nanaba. “Well, I must be going now.” A small nod. “Thank you for allowing my imposition into your time.”

“Of course, Commander,” Nanaba says, returning the nod with one of her own, her use of his title making the papers he carries (different ones, this time, always different; back when he’d first joined, he’d thought that the titans would be the hard part of the job. Now, he knows that to be false- titans require no sugar-coated words to weasel money out for supplies, nor compliments squeezed out from behind lying teeth, and if white lies were a crime Erwin would have a life sentence) seem all that much heavier in his hand. Erwin takes his leave, but not before shooting one last glance over his shoulder.

He doesn’t take the path next to the recreational center again until Saturday. True to Nanaba’s word, the chessboard is out, Armin and another seated and playing. Nanaba’s on duty again, nodding at Erwin as he enters but thankfully not saying anything (sometimes it’s best not to draw attention to oneself; of course, tall and fair as he is, Erwin has always preferred to hide _in_ the spotlight rather than around it) (this, of course, doesn’t work with fresh soldiers- they’re not at ease with him and blending in becomes difficult). Erwin can tell that Armin isn’t playing to his fullest; his moves are separate units, disjointed and clashing. He’s still winning, of course, but not as spectacularly.

Compared with their last match, Armin’s current command of the board is dismal (Erwin only becomes aware of his own frown when Nanaba catches his eye and raises an eyebrow, and Erwin schools his features, waving her off and refocusing on the game). Armin shifts his slouch to the side, looking faintly bored (Erwin understands this all too well) as his opponent struggles to think of a move that won’t end with his piece in the graveyard (Erwin can identify three, and knows exactly which should be employed). Armin’s eyes rake the audience, and Erwin thinks that maybe he imagines the double-take they do as they meet his (and berates himself for his elation when Armin straightens up and focuses on the game in earnest).

It’s over quickly, then. The chair across from Armin is empty, and he looks directly at Erwin (and his expression is hopeful and Erwin wonders if he, too, only seeks a similar game to theirs last week as well).

“Don’t mind if I do,” Erwin says, allowing a small smile as he repeats his words from last time (the crowd’s reaction, however, has changed; they’re less shocked, not surprised at all, and those keener on chess look on happily as Erwin approaches). Armin smiles easily, anticipatorily, but holding his silence as he gestures to the board, set identically to last week’s, the white queen and her king with their backs turned, trusting, to Erwin (he welcomes the change from cloaks of forest green and doubled wings).

Erwin opens with the same move he did last time. Now, though, he’s beginning to see through Armin’s ploys in a way he didn’t before; the intricate pattern that lies therein rests in his subconscious, barely perceptible (Erwin has no choice but to wait for it to manifest in his accessible thought, damned though it may be). But Armin is intelligent, and Erwin fancies he can feel the concentration oozing off of him (he knows there are results when the pattern changes and the intricate threads begin to work counter to the web he’s found, resulting in the quick loss of both his bishops and a pawn).

Erwin moves his knigh, seeing the trap only a split-second too late (they’re playing fast again, and it’s thrilling; Erwin can feel his heartbeat rising with his adrenaline as their moves come ever faster, any mistake penalized with swift death) (Erwin loses a pawn as he contemplates the similarities to the battlefield, only here the pawn stand no chance against the invaders, no gear allowing them to dance among the trees). Several moves and a changed strategy or three later, and Erwin captures Armin’s last knight, leaving his king defenseless. One of Erwin’s remaining pawns has it caught at a diagonal, guarded against attack by Erwin’s own king.

Armin raises his hands in surrender, smiling, then moves to exchange a handshake. Erwin accepts it, Armin’s hand warm in his own as he shakes and stands at the same time. “Well played, Armin,” he says softly (and though he is not known for sincerity and honest compliments, this time, Erwin means it wholeheartedly).

“Thank you, sir,” Armin says, averting his eyes as a rosy tinge overcomes his cheeks.

Erwin quells the feeling blossoming in his chest as he says, “I look forward to our match again next week,” feeling almost guilty at the phrasing (as though it were an order; but Armin’s eyes snap up to meet his, guarded in disbelief, and once again Erwin hides his elation as a smile crosses those lips). He leaves then, excusing himself to Nanaba before returning to his quarters (marveling all the way at Armin's intelligence, his adaptability, his will to keep playing at his best, though only three pieces remained in his charge, and thinking all the time how this is the kind of soldier that's needed by the Corp) (and that this is the kind of person that Erwin finds himself increasingly wishing to always have by his side, the longer he thinks about it).

The next Saturday, it's only by sheer force of will that Erwin doesn't run to the rec center (sheer force of will and the snide inner commentary that  _you're the Commander, not allowed to behave like the spoilt child you once were_ ). He arrives just as Armin beats Eren (he'd since learned that the two were close friends), and asks for a match which Armin appears more than happy to grant him. There's less people watching, now; their quick play isn't as stupefying the third time around (but of course they're both enraptured, trying to read each other's movements while at the same time making their own impervious to scrutiny, and to Erwin it transcends the title 'game' and moves on to something much grander, much more intricate than any  _game_ ever was). A few minutes of their not-game passes, and Erwin takes Armin's knight at B5, smirking, and from the sideways slant of Armin's mouth, Erwin knows his message was received, an elegantly scrawled  _'vengeance for last time_ ' written in patterns of black and white. 

Erwin wins this game too (but the margin is growing smaller as Armin learns from his mistakes in a devastatingly swift manner).

Next Saturday finds the lot of them astride their pawing mounts, waiting behind the gates for the signal to ride, and the late afternoon finds them returning through those same gates without even so much as the bodies of the fallen for consolation. 

There is no chess match that day.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Super-fun science-y fact regarding Erwin's musings: apparently your subconscious _can_ actually have identified a situation/weighed out all the pros and cons to make the "right" choice/discovered a pattern without you even consciously being aware of it (we call this our gut feeling, lotsa times). This happens with languages a lot- you catch on to the pronunciation patterns of a foreign language easily enough, but try explaining to someone how you know to pronounce something that way! Chances are you were never taught that formally. ~~Brains are very fascinating things.~~
> 
>  
> 
> ~~I shouldn't be writing I shouldn't be writing i hAVE OTHER OBLIGATIONS WHY AM I WRITING it's a curse I swear~~


	3. {Bishop to C6}

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Most of this was writ to [Balmorhea](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=IL5z-o4zsfE) again, but the second half I discovered [this song](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=CCHceyuKhFM) and stuff happened.
> 
>  
> 
> **ALSO, MANGA SPOILERS. JUST. BE AWARE OF THIS.**

"I know who the female-type titan is." 

Erwin is, for once, left speechless. Armin speaks with a nervous certainty, the almost-but-not-quite hitch of his voice belying his calm and confident salute as he stands, his feet shoulder length apart and firmly planted, a few feet distanced from Erwin. Erwin blinks twice before the words correctly process.

"Who, you say?"

"Yessir. She's- she's like Eren, a titan with a human inside."

Erwin merely nods; this he'd guessed a while ago, confirmed yesterday (a moment of the elusive insight he relies upon so heavily; that moment when all the little details suddenly line up, stringing into _sense_ ). Who, however, is a different matter altogether (he has his suspects, but no proof- such is his lot in life).

“And?” he prompts (and he wishes that Armin would stop acting so damned nervous- Erwin knows he can be assertive, knows he can be confident in his own decisions, knows this because he’s seen Armin play chess, seen him take the board and pieces and bend them to his will, so why does Armin doubt himself now?).

“Annie Leonhardt,” Armin says, his eyes flashing briefly as he utters the name (Erwin tells himself that wondering if the cause of that flash is a past relationship between the two is normal, rational, free from any form of spite or jealousy). Armin lowers his fist, which ‘til now had continued to rest against his chest, and mutters, quietly, reluctantly this time, “It’s Annie Leonhardt, sir.”

“Are you sure?”

And Armin looks up at him now, reproachful (yet nervous). “As sure as I can be,” he says. Erwin scrutinizes him for a moment (a moment which seems inordinately long; a moment in which he notices the particular shine of gold as the sunlight filters through the window and caresses blond hair; a moment in which he notices the small flare of a slightly upturned nose as air sweeps out; a moment in which he notices the variegated blue-grey-silver of eyes that bear more pain than they did a week ago) (and if eyes are windows to the soul, these are a spiral staircase that draw Erwin in). It is Erwin who looks away first.

Plans begin immediately. Armin explains, quietly, how he knows that Annie is the one (the more he talks, the more Erwin agrees). He also mentions the faults in his reasoning (something few can do, but something that Erwin had always valued- better for one to know one’s own weaknesses than for one’s enemy to know the same); how Annie is currently in the Military Police Brigade, deep within the walls, and to stage an attack like she could have yesterday requires both time and cunning manipulation (Armin also mentions that it is not the manipulation that places the most doubts in his mind, at the same time stating that of course, everything was from his point of view, not that he knew her _all_ that well, to which a green-toned beast within Erwin growls in misplaced approval, the foreign sensation catching Erwin by surprise).

The others are invited to join them, a proper war council convened (a council without weapons, at least for the moment, as both humanity’s strongest and their hope rest elsewhere). Eren’s summons find their way onto the table, and suddenly Armin is in charge again, possessing the room in a way familiar to Erwin (though he is usually on the possessing end, not the possessed; but now he cannot bring himself to care, too busy picking apart the framework Armin is laying before them all, a series of blocked-in plans and counter plans) (and they just might work, with a minor tweak here or there, but there’s still weeks left until Eren must be presented and they have the time to burnish the plan into shiny perfection).

Then someone asks what should be done to the female-type titan.

Armin’s voice grows colder, more distant, and this is the first time Erwin sees it. That savage, ruthless intelligence, in all its raw, churning glory. It's tempered; held to heel by Armin's humanity (and thank goodness he still has that; without it, Erwin is sure that Armin would destroy, easily and mercilessly, all who crossed him) and checked by his still gentle heart. Checked, but only just; checked so that he answers ‘capture’ instead of ‘kill’; checked so that he requests to build in a way out, just in case; checked so that he’s the one who asks to carry out the mission.

They move their council, then, joining Eren and Levi, whose questions abound. Erwin begins to explain, defers a question to Armin, and is content to watch as Armin takes over and explains and outlines all the courses of action they’ve arrived at until now; but Erwin is also aware that Armin is afraid (he’s not the only one).

It's been a while since Erwin's felt fear. He's always sustained that between humans and titans, humans were the scarier of the two (he used to be scared of them; scared of their lies and their manipulations, scared of the way they'd do anything to get at that which they lusted after. He used to be scared of them, until he became not only one of them, but the  _best_  of them; it's been a while since he's feared anyone but himself). Watching the calculated narrowness in the eyes before him, Erwin knows that it's true, knows that before him is, finally, someone that he should fear. Knows he  _should_ , but can't bring himself to, because Armin is still too kind, too caring ( _and isn’t he?_ Erwin muses as Armin repeats the portion of the plan where Annie can prove herself- prove that she is not what they believe her to be). And maybe that's what makes him the most dangerous of all (it's rare for a caring soul to survive long- either they die or they change, and Erwin has the most nagging sensation that Armin would rather abandon his ideals than the lives of his friends, such is his care).

They conclude for the night, each returning to their own quarters, content to meet again tomorrow, when their bodies and souls both ache less. Armin and Erwin are the last to leave, Armin seeming to go out of his way to avoid eye contact with Erwin (whose chest pangs with a feeling he can’t quite place) (doesn’t _want_ to place, because the implications are such that aren’t meant for the battlefield that is their lives).

The next morning after breakfast they reunite in the same room, a mixture between refreshed and dead. There are kinks to work out of the plans- how are they getting in? Will they need a decoy? What if they don’t make it in? In the case of civilians, should they have then evacuated, or would the mass panic bee too noticeable? The Military Police can’t be informed, of course- but should they rely on them at all? What if Leonhardt doesn’t cooperate? (To which Armin replies, steel-toned, that she _will_.) This time, they wrap things up just after dinner, deciding to finish in time to grab any leftovers the kitchen might be willing to provide. Erwin is about to leave when he notices Armin still standing next to his pushed-in chair, shuffling and rearranging sheaves of planning paper (dark scribbles merging together into the darkening light).

He hesitates (and this is not something that Erwin Smith does; he has built around him a persona that is as unflinching as the walls were believed to be, as hard as their alloy-forged blades and as determined and set as his soldiers are before a battle; a mask he has created and worn so long he thinks the impressions it has left are too deep to ever fade away; for if he constantly wears a mask, which, then, is his true face? Erwin Smith, Scouting Legion Commander, does not hesitate- and yet) (and yet, maybe _Erwin_ does). Armin looks up, their eyes meeting for a breath of a second before Armin’s skitter away, and Erwin is unable to read the emotions they hold (and it intrigues him, pulls him closer, deeper; he’s always considered himself a good reader of people) (at the same time, he’s always been told he’s inscrutable, scentless, and only now that the tables are turned does he realize how unsettling it can be, to not be able to predict which motions will follow the previous- to not see the entire game board, but only one or two squares at once).

The words leave his lips unbidden.

“Would you care for a round of chess?” They both freeze, startled. There’s a second of silence during which Erwin considers tactical retreat, but then Armin nods, hesitant voice carrying so softly Erwin could almost think he’d dreamed it, had he not seen Armin’s mouth move in tandem with the words.

“If it’s not bother to you, sir, I think I’d like that.”

They play together, strategies steadily increasing in complexity and margins of victory growing ever smaller, every night that week. Erwin knows the other members of the planning squad have noticed, but none have as of yet said anything (and their silence suits Erwin just fine) (suits _Erwin_ , who is still trying to map out the terrain of his mind and his heart, so different and so much harder to pin down than the expanse beyond the walls).

Saturday they take the day off ( _they_ not to be confused with _Erwin_ , who hasn’t slept properly in days and can’t bring himself to stop working (the chess games are an extraordinary exception, the only ripple in an otherwise smoothed out pattern of high-stress life), not if stopping would mean a kink in the plan that would cost one more soldier their life, because those soldiers all have family and friends and lovers and signing his name is a physical hurt when the letters he signs are emblazoned with the military sigil and the words ‘in memory of the deceased’), and Saturday night Erwin leaves his desk and heads for the rec center. He doesn’t wait for an invitation this time, simply striding over and claiming the seat across from Armin’s as his own once the previous player moves.

Armin looks at him with concern written all over his face (and maybe it’s just that Erwin has grown better at it, or maybe Armin more trusting, but his facial expressions are clearer now than they were five days ago, and Erwin would like to think he can almost understand how Armin thinks) (he’s quickly proved wrong as their gameplay progresses and move after another Armin fails to conform to his usual pattern (Armin wouldn’t have moved his bishop to C6 to take Erwin’s; he would have placed his knight at F7 and eaten Erwin’s rook)).

This game only lasts seven minutes, Erwin feeling, the entire time, as though there is some secret he’s not picking up on written in the motions Armin’s tracing across the board, dark pieces connecting to form lines more confusing even than the papers they use to keep track of their many-layered plan with all its contingencies and fallbacks and failsafes. It ends, quickly and definitively, with a quietly uttered “checkmate”.

Erwin stares at the white king, boxed against his home row by three pieces the color of charcoal. A blur of motion in his peripheral vision causes Erwin to lift his head, almost without thinking. Armin’s brows are drawn together, in a way that can only be classified as worry.

“Commander,” he says, and there’s an unexpected tenderness in his eyes as he says the word, a warm hand tentatively coming forward to rest on Erwin’s own (and Erwin feels the tenderness mirrored in his own chest, warmth diffusing throughout him). “You need to stop working yourself too hard. We can shoulder some of the burden as well.” This time, Erwin looks away ( _a child caught red-handed, you are_ ).

“I-”

“I was using your own strategies. You need more sleep.” The words are clipped and short, not a syllable more than necessary being spoken, each sound measured on a double-axis of weight and meaning (Erwin has to guess the parts of the syllogism Armin’s left out; his own strategies being used against him, coupled with the fact that he hadn’t noticed, rounded off with a reminder of his insomniac nights- the message is abundantly clear) (Erwin prides himself on the fact that Armin will speak to him thusly; with others, the entire message is said rather than left to be implied).

“…yes,” he finally consents, lost in the warm glow Armin always seems to emanating. “You’re probably right.” He sighs, making to stand. Armin moves, as if to stop him and add to his previous statement, but then falls back into his chair.

“Good game, sir,” he says instead (Erwin burns to know what would otherwise have been said).

“Yes, the same to you. And… thank you,” Erwin says with a nod, excusing himself from the rec hall and heading to his room, deciding that Armin’s wisdom has merit and he could do worse than to listen to it. He falls into bed after a quick, lukewarm shower, drifting off to an acknowledgement of Armin’s correct assumptions (the soft pillow feels like heaven against his cheek, his blankets just the right amount of warm and heavy and how has he gone so long denying himself this pleasure of sleep, he doesn’t know) (meetings go smoother the next day, Erwin feeling better than he has in a long while, and for the entirety of the following week, he commits himself to sleeping- and Armin asks, every match they play, how the Commander feels and if he’s getting enough sleep) (Erwin is jealous of the Commander).

The week after, the countdown starts. All are frenzied as places and positions are taught for the first time in accordance with their Stohess plan; squads are reconfigured (this, at least, the soldiers are used to- thirty percent casualty rates ensure that most squads are temporary at most) and coordinators assigned. Erwin is even busier than normal; three days out of that week he forgets to even _go_ to his room (Levi informs him that he stinks and that he really should shower ASAP, but it is Armin- Armin, with his gentle words and cutting, alluring mind- that actually gets him any modicum of rest, because the mere thought of seeing the disappointment in those blue, blue eyes when they play chess- and play they do, every night, a sweet sanctuary of mental peace that Erwin allows himself to hold- makes his gut clench).

The night before is stations at the ready. The planning group doesn’t meet at all today, but Erwin remains up late, wandering through the stacks of prepared gear- tack for the horses, the cart that will supposedly hold Eren, their 3-D Maneuver Gear- making sure that it is all in working order. Soft footsteps alert him to the presence of someone, and he whirls quickly, tracking the intruder, ready to take an aggressive course of action, should the situation call for that.

He is instead greeted with the sight of Armin, a folded chessboard tucked under his arm.

“I can’t sleep,” he says by way of greeting. Erwin composes himself, nodding (sometimes it is too easy to forget that Armin is a mere fifteen; his intelligence and wisdom and even, now, his way of carrying himself suggest someone, if not much older, than at least not quite so young. But in these fragile moments, the moments before action- and Armin will have plenty of that, after all, it is his job and his alone to convince Annie to play along, play into their trap- Erwin can see Armin’s inexperience shine through, realize that nerves keep more than just him awake). He extends a hand, and Armin hands him the chessboard. He unfolds it and pulls out the pieces from their place in the center, then begins to set up.

They play silently, content to just exist within the other’s company. Their moves are slower than usual; they take their time, pace themselves, because this is both meditation and the last time they might ever see each other, if all goes to hell by tomorrow (which Erwin learned long ago to always prepare for). Erwin wins this game, ending with his fingers laced with Armin’s (when this became ritual, he doesn’t know; only that, at some point over the course of the week, it has, and he is reluctant to let it go) (he’d be content to simply sit with Armin’s hand in his, both rested against an empty chessboard, for all eternity). They sit like that for a while.

Then Armin, never letting go of Erwin’s hand, replaces all the pieces into the board, folding it in two and latching it shut (such a practiced motion that Erwin wonders at the repetition count). He stands, and, quickly, brings his hand and Erwin’s up, his fingers disentangling and reforming to hold Erwin’s own, placing a gentle kiss on Erwin’s knuckles.

“Thank you,” he murmurs, breath ghosting over Erwin’s hand, before his boots click away and he is gone.

Erwin stays seated a while longer, his heart doing funny things in his chest that no amount of logic can reason away.

Of course, it all goes to hell the next day. The female titan- confirmed alias Annie Leonhardt- materializes and crystallizes, but not before destroying part of the Wall, terrifying even Hanji (she’s always been a rock for him, for she only ever feared death when it was of benefit to her, and for her to feel that now- well). Then word reaches them of the Wall Rose breach, and Erwin rallies his troops, leading them once more into battle against foes he’d never thought (or at least never hoped) to meet again. Many fight, and many die, that day; Erwin knows, rationally, that his arm is missing, at some point- his weight is all shifted, and he can’t properly control his gear- but he doesn’t feel it (he’s floating somewhere above his body when it collapses, supported only by loyal comrades). His last thought is of what could have happened to golden hair and sky-blue eyes.

Erwin wakes, later, to pain and the sight of a young blond soldier slumped in a chair, head tilted back against the wall, dozing softly, and has rarely been more thankful. He slips quietly back into sleep, but this time it’s restful. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ~~haha i fucking abuse parentheses~~  
>  Mini-story-time: I was rock climbing with a friend once, and I was belaying him, and so he went up and he came back down and by the time he got down he was exhausted so he just laid down on the ground and I walked over and peered over him (cause, you know, that's what people do, right?). And anyways, in doing so I made eye contact with him, only his eyes were _such_ a beautiful shade of silver-grey that I ended up not actually saying anything in favor of observing his eyes. EYES. (He freaked out a little bit because I was actually staring but you know). BUT YES THAT IS THE STORY OF HOW I GOT LOST IN SOMEONE'S EYES HELLO HI I AM SANE I PROMISE.


	4. {Queen to A8}

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ay yo, in case you didn't notice the manga spoilers last chapter, they're the focus of this one. 
> 
> //also, mild AU in that Levi's new squad stays until a few days after Erwin wakes up, rather than having already headed to the cabin.
> 
>  ~~///so many levels of unbetad right now but oh well~~ Edit: Beta'd by the wonderful [Kenjiandco](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Kenjiandco/pseuds/Kenjiandco) <3 <3

The second time he wakes up, the pain is still there, but not the boy. Levi is though, armed with questions about his health and disguised concern that is so intrinsically _Levi_ that Erwin attempts a smile; there’s also a folded chessboard, sitting daintily on the edge of the nightstand, and Erwin’s eyes rest on it longer than strictly necessary as he partially tunes out Levi’s words. He tunes out completely after he hears of the death of Mike, because Mike has always been one of his friends in a world inhabited only by enemies and Erwin doesn’t want to deal with what his absence will mean for the future (if there even _is_ a future). Just as he’s about to contemplate leaning back and allowing the waves of suppressed pain loose, Hanji enters, Springer by her side, and Erwin’s insides chill in such a way that he wonders if he’s even still alive or just a dream.

That some titans were human, he had taken for granted; he’d known what signs to look for to separate them from the rest, known what their characteristics were and known how to deal with them. But if the mindless hordes are also people? Erwin laughs bitterly, startling those around him (but he can’t help it, the notion is ludicrous, fanciful, something out of a children’s tale; maybe in the future he will be known as Erwin Smith, the man who sent out soldiers to kill humans in the name of humanity, who invented ever more efficient methods of killing as many _humans_ at once as possible) (and already he can feel the blood on his hands doubling, oozing its way into every fold of clothing and every wrinkle of skin, until he remembers that now he only has one arm, listing to the side as he does so, suddenly and painfully aware of his lack) ( _am I even fit to command any longer?_ ).

They leave, then, with muttered assurances of business being taken care of and you’d better get some rest, the tourniquet didn’t stop you from losing enough blood to faint, so please just rest now, work later, and Erwin finds himself nodding against his wishes as Levi gently closes the door behind him. Erwin falls backwards, mind hazy with pain and revelation of the most gruesome sort; he falls backwards into darkness and oblivion (wondering, on his way out, why on earth there should be a _chessboard_ , of all things, still perched on his bedside table as if it should belong to him) (because it can’t; the Commander doesn’t have time for silly games, he’s got a war to run).

He doesn’t sleep long, woken gently by a doctor, asking him how he feels ( _like I got my arm eaten by a titan_ , he wants to tell her) and if he thinks he can stomach some broth (he settles instead for a murmur that ‘soup would be nice, thanks’). She helps him set up the bowl, and begins to feed him, but stops as he catches her with a glance that’s not so much glare as it is grimace; he’s then allowed to take the spoon in his hand (his left hand, he realizes, which means he will have to learn how to write and sign all over again and so many adjustments to be made to his gear and his horse’s tack- and did his horse even survive, at all?- and _how am I supposed to salute anymore_ and he cuts off that train of thought because his ribs are threatening to stop breathing for him if he continues), and slowly, messily, feed himself, his lack of coordination making him frustrated enough to scream if he could.

But he can’t, because the doctor’s still there beside him, quietly observing and then asking to see his other arm (or what’s left of it, and Erwin himself barely knows because he doesn’t trust himself to look), checking on sutures and changing bandages. She gives him tea concocted from a selection of herbs that taste like he feels, but Erwin drinks anyway once she assures him it’ll ease the pain (it does) and put him to sleep (less so). She takes her leave then, sure to ask Erwin if there’s anything else he needs at the moment. He shakes his head, and she goes.

He spends an hour, by his reckoning, in silence, desperately trying not to think of the crushing news he’s been told and the state he finds himself in and the state the world finds itself in and the fact that his enemies are only more of his people- so he refocuses, trying to recall as much as he can from the mission. He remembers heading out, remembers Armin finding a place by his side amongst the flurry of hooves and whipping wind as they raced the sundown. He remembers ordering the mission onwards, remembers Armin taking up the call (remembers the fierceness in Armin’s demeanor and the resultant hybrid of pride and fear in his own chest)- and then pain, so much that only flashes of images stay in his memory- of Armin, screaming lies at the traitor; Erwin himself falling once as he miscalculated his momentum with a new weight; of Armin again, carrying Jean across his saddle. Blurry, of returning to the Wall. Then nothing.

He is torn out of his search for remembrance by the creak of hinges on his door. The arm he’d flung across his eyes moves again, allowing him to see the visitor (Erwin’s breath catches in relief and he knows it, wonders if Armin can hear it, because he hadn’t had the courage earlier to ask but Armin is still here, alive and in one piece, and the _relief_ he feels washes him away and almost reduces him to tears- tears that wouldn’t come earlier, not with the mention of Mike nor with poor Connie’s village, and isn’t it ironic that the happiest event is the only one that causes him to blink rapidly to keep the salted water in).

Armin still hasn’t moved save for his eyes and a quick rise-fall of his chest, his surprise-panicked expression frozen on his face, and now Erwin notices papers clutched in his arms, knuckles white with their grip around the self-important lettering (the implication scares him, because he knows that he is supposedly sleeping by now, so these aren’t matters meant for him; they’re meant for _Armin_ ).

A hand runs through Erwin’s hair, and he thinks that in a world that is could scarcely be less hellish than hell, he'll take his saving grace wherever he can find it. The heavens know that he bears enough blood on his hands to paint the capitol red, and as he locks his eyes with Armin's, he realizes that he won't be the only one to have to bear this burden. He never meant for it to happen, and if he could muster up tears he’d blinked away moments earlier he _would_ cry, but he settles instead for staring at Armin with a blank look on his face (only maybe it's not blank; maybe it's respect mixed with pain mixed with fear mixed with dread mixed with longing) (he knows, rationally, that Armin's not the one calling the shots, not yet, but it's a matter of time, and he shudders to picture Armin doing the work he does now).

"Well?" Erwin says, and thinks that maybe, maybe that was a bit on the rough side. Maybe hello should have been first, but then again, he's fairly certain Armin will understand.

"How much does it hurt?" is the answering whisper, and Erwin has to give him points for originality. Not 'does it hurt', because of course it does, of course it fucking does. Not 'how bad is it' because that's also something he can see for himself, isn't it? A missing arm isn't subtle. 'How much does it hurt', because the pain demands to be recognized and shared, and Armin is all too ready to take on that pain ( _for Erwin or for the Commander?_ asks the nagging voice Erwin always does his best to ignore, only this time it makes a fair point, and Erwin steels his heart).

"A lot," he says in a rushed-out breath, and surprises himself because his intention was never to be honest (he's not an honest person, in all reality he's not in the least, he makes his damn _job_ out of not being honest, out of layers of deception and trickery and deceit, and yet here's this person who can pull the truth from him not by its teeth but by a simple, soft-spoken _question_ , of all things) (how many times before has Erwin lied and not batted an eye at the same question?). Armin's eyebrows come together, and whether it's a look of fury or pity or empathized pain, Erwin can't tell.

Armin’s jaw clenches for a split second. “We’re looking for a solution,” he says. “In the meantime,” he continues, his grip on the papers loosening just enough to wave them slightly, “there’s been trouble. Levi told you.” It’s a question disguised as a statement, and Erwin nods. “Mm.” Armin sits down in the chair closest to his bed and straightens the papers on his knee, flipping through a bit before selecting one and bringing it to the fore, handing the entire stack to Erwin (and Erwin notices the careful placement of his hand, so that it won’t interfere with Erwin’s left as he clumsily takes them all. He’s glad that the stack is neat because the stability makes it easier to hold, and he murmurs what might be a soft thank you before focusing on the printed words).

It’s an article from one of Sina’s newspapers. It outlines, with malevolent, derogatory language, the situation of the refugees in the underground; it closes with a mention of Survey Corps Commander Erwin Smith and how he’s dropped off the map, for the second week in a row unavailable for commentary.

“They don’t know yet?”

Armin gently extricates the papers from Erwin’s grip, shaking his head. “They never asked. Only if you were available for commentary. You weren’t,” he says, tilting his head towards the bed. Erwin’s heart does funny things again, but this time, he finds, he doesn’t care all that much. He knows he’ll have to face the public and the press soon, but for now he’s allowed to let that preoccupation slide, and he almost slips into a smile.

“How tired are you?” Armin asks suddenly. Erwin turns his head, contemplating.

“Depends,” he asks, fairly certain of the direction this is going.

“Chess?”

“Please,” he says, fighting to keep his voice from breaking with an emotion he doesn’t want to label. Armin carefully reaches over him for the board (his weight makes one edge of the bed dip, and Erwin has a moment of panic when the arm that should be there to catch him isn’t and he finds himself pressing painful bandages into the pillows instead of an elbow, but then Armin’s weight is gone and the bed tilts back normally and all Erwin can do is control his breathing as the pain eases back down from its peak). Armin then helps Erwin back into a sitting position, stacking his pillows in a comfortable wrap around him. The pieces are dumped onto the bed on Erwin’s left, the chessboard set gingerly atop his lap. With firm instructions to set up the board, Armin leaves, returning minutes later with two warm mugs of (tasty, this time) tea.

They begin play normally; Armin with black, Erwin on white. It’s hard to navigate the board with his non-dominant hand, trying not to knock anything over (Armin doesn’t seem to mind, merely straightening whatever Erwin moves, but Erwin minds; minds the way he can’t get his pieces to sit perfectly, the way that he can’t hesitate without his hand lurching of its own accord, the way his stupid stump of an arm reaches forward unintentionally, whenever he forgets that he’s not allowed to use it anymore). Erwin’s frustrations mount with every slightly off-center piece, until he’s on the verge of growling at the board (he knows, deep down, that if he tried and concentrated he would get better; but his arm isn’t coming back and now that knowledge is shoved into his view front and center, the inescapable inevitability of needing to relearn _everything_ and maybe it’s just the pain but now he wants to cry again, to scream and rage at everything).

On Armin’s turn, the young soldier laces his fingers with Erwin’s, effectively stopping his nervous fidgeting. His eyes are boring into Erwin’s, and he squeezes softly, reassuringly. Erwin doesn’t respond for a few seconds, searching Armin’s face. He sees nothing but reassurance. Erwin nods, head dipping down to the game, and squeezes lightly back (astounded at how much this one reassurance can make things seem, not more all right, but at least more tolerable in their wrongness- his arm is gone, titans are humans, Hanji’s scared, Levi’s chosen to throw in his card with the Corps, Mike is _dead-_ but Armin is by his side, and that counts for more than he realized, more than Armin probably still realizes). Armin reads his move out loud, emphasizing the action with another gentle clasp.

“Knight to A3,” he says, moving his knight. Erwin takes the hint.

“Rook to A3,” he answers, delighting when Armin’s slender fingers slide the piece into place, removing its previous occupant with a swirl.

“Queen to D8.”

“Rook to A8.”

“Queen to A8.”

They play a little while longer, and Armin wins this time. Fingers still intertwined, Erwin runs his thumb along the outer edge of Armin’s. “Well played, as always,” he says, finally allowing a smile to curl onto his lips. Armin smiles tiredly in return.

“I’ve missed playing with you,” he says (Erwin tries, for a moment, to not let himself edit out the ‘playing with’, but only for a moment, because Armin’s looking at him with that look again, the one that makes Erwin feel like he’s being caressed by sunlight and the smell of pastures in high summer; the one that makes him feel, inexplicably, _safe_ ).

“I’ve missed playing with you, too,” Erwin finally replies, bringing their hands to his lips and tenderly, softly, carefully placing a kiss on Armin’s hand; and Armin blushes but doesn’t look away, and Erwin relaxes himself into the pillows, falling asleep with Armin’s hand still held warmly in his.

He wakes up twice during the night; once because he has to use the restroom, and once because the nightmares of titans chewing his arm are just too real to be a dream (and they aren’t dreams- they’re memories, and Erwin fears that might be part of the problem). He wakes up in earnest the next morning. Armin’s gone, but atop the chessboard, separated by a napkin, is an insulated canteen of tea. Erwin reaches out, noting belatedly that the nightstand has switched sides of his bed (for ease of access, of course, and Erwin sips the tea appreciatively, setting it back down on its napkin once he’s done, making a mental note to thank Armin when he next sees him).

The doctor visits again, same procedure as before. Armin, again, comes in later. There’s more papers for Erwin this time; two articles and a summary of a report, to keep Erwin aware of what’s happened and what is still happening around him (he reads them, interested but only in a detached way; nothing seems _real_ to him right now, not when Armin sits next to him, patiently reading his own papers, the pads of his fingers absent-mindedly tapping on lacquered wood that had shifted from nightstand to his lap) (it doesn’t seem real to him even a few minutes later, as letter-number coordinates are called out and Armin uses the hand not claimed by Erwin’s to execute the specified motions). Armin wins this match, though Erwin’s drawn closer, the undercurrents of new strategy still eluding him but only just so (and following the example of their last two games, the loser pays homage, setting a kiss on the winner’s hand) (Erwin holds it a second longer than strictly necessary). He falls asleep with Armin’s hand in his again, lulled away by Armin’s rhythmic breath and the occasional swish of a sheet of paper being flipped.

He sleeps better the next night, and the pattern repeats itself (the doctor comments on the tea, and how healing ginger is known to be, and also how rare- ‘someone cares for you a lot’, she states with a smile, the door closing gently behind her) (the door opens immediately afterwards to a disgruntled Levi, who explains in terse words the plan that is going to be followed- now that Erwin’s awake and doing better, it’s time for Levi to leave and take his team with him in order to better understand Eren’s powers- and Erwin nods along, understanding but not really processing.) It’s not until a while later that Armin shows up, apologizing for his lateness, but Erwin notes that the stack of papers is thicker this time and feels a pang of guilt at allowing Armin to do his job for him.

Erwin wins their game this time, and Armin shows no hesitation as he presses his lips to Erwin’s palm, no hesitation either when he presents each finger pad with a kiss of its own.

Erwin wonders, briefly, when it started. Which of them had taken initiative, made the first move.

He wonders, a lingering thought, about how it had escalated to become what it had; how innocent interaction had become a game. Although, game might be too soft a word. Anyone could play a game; what they did was limited to only them (limited, for many reasons, but the foremost being he doubted anyone else would- no, _could_ \- keep up). He wonders this even as his hand caresses Armin’s cheek; wonders this even as Armin leans in; continues wondering right up until their lips meet and his brain stops wondering about anything at all, period.

Their lips stay closed until a soft moan finds its way past Erwin’s barriers; and then Armin is moved to action, and whatever composure Erwin has gained since the kiss first began is lost again when Armin’s tongue finds his. Armin pulls away after a while, his cheeks flushed and his eyes glittering, hand still interlocked with Erwin’s. He plants a kiss first to Erwin’s forehead, then once more to Erwin’s palm.

“I have to go, too much work,” he says, and Erwin’s breath catches as he nods (nods and bites down on the ‘no, don’t go’ that wants nothing more than to burst forth with violence). “Sorry,” he whispers as he sets the pieces back in their case.

“No, don’t be,” Erwin murmurs (he knows that Armin has duties and jobs and all the more now that his Commander is unavailable for commentary, but his selfishness demands to be listened to, and he tugs gently on Armin’s hand until they meet for another kiss).

“Erwin,” Armin says, and Erwin’s heart flops in his chest (and he swears he never liked his name as much as he does in that instant). “I’ll come back,” he says, kissing Erwin once more. “But for now, you should really get some rest.” His hand disentangles from Erwin’s (and Erwin’d be lying to himself if he said he didn’t miss it already), and he picks up the papers he’d set on the nightstand earlier, pausing on his way out to blow Erwin a kiss.

Erwin pretends to catch it even as the door closes, and brings it to his chest, keeping it warm. The memory of soft lips banishes that of titans, and for the first night since he’s been awake, Erwin sleeps soundly.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ~~when would the appropriate time be to inform everyone that i know shit about chess~~


	5. {Check}

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> King is both goal and heart of the game, after all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Um. Well that was fun.

He wakes up the next morning to a room which feels different, somehow (the feeling of something missing is palpable, taking up more space than warranted); it's not until he looks over to the table by his side that he notices it.

There's no cup of tea atop the chessboard.

Erwin's reason leaves him; scenarios begin to build up, streaming one into another until they swirl thickly as mud around his mind (scenarios of disaster and 'what if's that could tear him apart-   _What if_ he had been too forward in his approach, and chased him away? _What if_ he's left? Gone?) (he wouldn't be the first to go; he'd be the first Erwin has cared about, though, and that thought in and of itself is enough to drive a shaft of phantom pain through the spot where his lost arm should be). The panic threatens to take him over until the doctor comes in. Something must show on Erwin’s face, because she tuts, her expression one of concern (Erwin tries to bite down on his preoccupation with the thought that maybe Armin is just busy elsewhere- but then he remembers the glint of Armin’s eyes last night, recalls his tone of voice as he’d excused himself, and Erwin could beat himself over the head because _how_ could he have been so obtuse as to not notice? He can read a chessboard like a book, but couldn’t even read the goodbye in Armin’s words).

“Are you okay? Does it hurt more than normal? Here, let me change those bandages again-” Erwin says nothing as she gets straight to work. It tingles as the bandages come off, still a scabbed-over mess, and Erwin has to grit his teeth as she applies a poultice of some sort and it _burns_. She wraps it up again, then, trying off the white bandages with a neat bow knot. “You’re healing well, that’s good,” she says, her hands flying as she re-organizes her medical bag to her liking. “I can’t imagine it’ll take more than another month until we can remove all the bandages and have you back in uniform.”

Her tone is too cheery for the occasion, and Erwin refuses to meet her eyes (‘back in uniform’ she says, as if leading from a desk is something Erwin was ever able to so; as if anything would be the same with his balance so off-kilter it takes effort to even properly sit up in one go) (‘back in uniform’, she says, as if Erwin’s most pressing concern is the state of his troops and he knows it should be, he _knows_ , but the absence of the teacup stifles everything else down, choking it with fine silt).

“You call for me if you start feeling any worse, okay? Just shout, my office is right next door.” She means well, Erwin can tell from the soft look in her eyes, but he wants nothing more than to scream at her that nothing’s alright because Armin- Armin’s not there (and it’s said you don’t know what you have until it’s gone; Erwin’s starting to realize that that statement is correct in the most painful of ways). She bustles out, shutting the door behind her, and Erwin reaches out to the table, fingers closing around the smooth wood of the chessboard (which is on his good side; such a small detail he’d never really cared to notice it before, but now he realizes it must be Armin’s doing- the other nightstand is far less cluttered, after all, so it only makes sense to put it there instead), and he brings it to rest in his lap, simply running his fingers over it. Over and over, until he can predict with certainty how long it will take for his finger to hit the small ridge where a smooth white square, incorrectly cut, sticks up a bit above the rest of the board, and until he has a map laid out in his mind of the board’s grooves and depressions, carved into the wood by force of constant usage, and Erwin wonders again how long Armin has had it and who else has been granted the honor of a game.

It hits him, then, full-force, a gale on the heels of a cloudless sky: _Armin left me his chessboard_. The thought turns itself over several times in Erwin’s mind even as his fingers continue to glide over the surface.   _Armin left me his chessboard._ He’s seen, over the weeks, the soft, reverent touches Armin gives the board (small, almost unnoticeable, and Erwin has never thought them worth mentioning, only even noticing them because it was Armin who made them) (the board has frequently had oil rubbed into it, as well- there are members of the Legion don’t treat their blades with the same kind of respect Armin has given the checkered wood). _It’s important to him, and he’s given it to me… could that mean…?_ Erwin isn’t sure if he wants to think the thought through to completion. He doesn’t have to, because Hanji explodes into his room the next second, her usual thunder-and-lightning demeanor managing, for a moment, to distract Erwin enough into focusing on her words (he silently thanks her for being the kind of person whose presence demands to be heard).

“-Levi and his squad will be taking Eren out to test his abilities soon, I’ve given Armin strict orders to note things the way I taught him, he’s smart enough to manage but I hope he remem-”

“Armin’s there?” Erwin interrupts her speech, and she falters, not used to such forceful questions, especially not from a bedridden commander.  She nods, eyeing him.

“Were you not paying attention to Levi when he told you about this yesterday? He took several of the 104th members with him, so they could test Eren.”

“I- I suppose it must have slipped my mind,” Erwin says (remembering Levi visiting but not what he’d said- his mind had been elsewhere) (a golden-haired, blue-eyed elsewhere, to be exact). Hanji squints at him, but says nothing as she picks up her line of thought right where she left off and continues from there. Erwin is lost in his own private sphere (so Armin is gone, not out of incident but out of plan; there’s no need to worry because surely he will come back; he’s not even going on any Scouting Legion missions, so the thirty percent mortality can be ignored and he’s with Levi and Mikasa, the two best of the best and _nothing will happen to Armin, right? It’s okay if I don’t worry, right?_ ). He leads himself back eventually, throwing himself into the work that Hanji has brought him (finally concentrating enough to understand what she’s saying and agreeing). They work together until dinnertime, whereupon Moblit enters with food for the two of them; then the two excuse themselves and Erwin falls asleep facing his nightstand.

It takes about a week for the doctor to relent and allow Erwin to go back to his private quarters and begin to move around. It takes about a week longer for him to stop reaching out with his right arm; he takes to practicing riding in the afternoons, and by the time he’s re-mastered that Hanji comes to him with modified gear made for usage with one arm (when word gets out to the press that the great Commander is down an arm, he shows up to the scheduled interview with his gear, landing with a flip and calmly smoothing down a stray hair in a gesture that stuns the reporters). Reports come in from Levi’s squad, written in Armin’s neat, angular hand (the ache in Erwin’s chest hasn’t dulled much regardless of the time, and he reads the reports twice just to memorize the soft angles and sharp curves of Armin’s scrawl.) Hanji and Moblit are still dealing with the aftermath of Pastor Nick’s death and the conspiracy within the Military Police. When he can find the time, Erwin oils Armin’s chessboard, bringing the wood back to its soft shine.

Somehow, five months pass before he can properly register it, each day dragging out an eternity (put together, though, and the time seems fleeting). He forgets who it was that helped him tie his jacket like that: the knot of the right sleeve is a few inches below where his arm ends, enough leeway that he can move any way he wishes without the fabric pressing too tightly against his scar (usually its of no bother, but tonight it irritates his scars, and Erwin is sorely tempted to blame the storm outside, old man’s excuse or not) (it’s not the storm). He waits patiently, front pocket of his jacket heavy, in the hall that serves as the closest entrance to the stables; with the kind of weather there is outside, he knows that’s where the returning party will enter from (he wonders if it’s too forward of him to wait here, but the thought of going elsewhere clenches his stomach and so he stays rooted, resisting the urge to scratch his arm).

They are rain-covered as they walk in, their cloaks several shades of forest darker as they leave feathers of water in their wake. Entering the warmth of the hall, hoods begin to fall, revealing faces aged five long months since he last saw them. His chest tightens as he looks on, scanning the soldiers before him, stomach dropping slightly as hood after hood the one face he wants to see isn’t there. Finally, they’re all in, and Erwin is struck by a light panic, because what if something has happened to-

And then the last hood falls, and Erwin’s relief is so palpable he’s surprised it hasn’t escaped his ribcage yet. Instead, he aches. Armin’s hair is longer now, parts tied back into a half ponytail, leaving the planes of his face bare, refined from months spent away from base, his shoulders a bit broader; he looks as though he’s grown three inches and already filled that with muscle (he looks _good_ ). His eyes, though, once they meet Erwin’s, are the same (clear as the sky and just as deep; calculating and observant, but also so wonderfully warm and familiar and Erwin wants to say something, anything, but he, silver-tongued menace of Sina’s upper-end courts, cannot think of a single word that will adequately encompass what he wants- needs- to say).

Armin beats him to the punch, though, stepping into a perfect salute, the hand holding his pack slipping smoothly behind his back, clenched fist coming to rest over his heart (his chin tilts up, only enough to be noticed, and it causes Erwin to remember the meaning of their salute- “I offer up my heart to the king”- only Armin’s eyes are focused directly, searingly on him, and Erwin inclines his head, locking down his giddy smile under the façade of Commander as he acknowledges Armin’s message- “I offer up my heart to you”) (it pains Erwin that he can’t reply in kind; instead, he reaches into his pocket with practiced ease, pulling out the black king of Armin’s chessboard. Even across the hall, Erwin can see Armin’s inhalation as he sees it, recognizes the meaning-  the king is both goal and heart of the game, after all. Erwin replaces the piece and falls into step with Levi, conversation turning quickly to business).

There are formalities to be observed, of course.  A dinner to welcome Eren and Levi back is held, all members of the Legion present in attendance, plans and results to discuss, courses of action to decide upon. At some point, though, Erwin manages to get close enough to ask Armin, a nonchalant tone tingeing his voice, if he should like to partake in a game of chess later on that night. When Armin responds in the affirmative, Erwin hands him the king and tells him where to go once matters are settled for the night (and if Armin is at all surprised, he doesn’t show it). The assembly drags on longer than Erwin would like, but finally (thankfully) they are free. Armin had left several minutes previously, saying he wished to unpack before bed; he’s not in Erwin’s room when the door opens, and Erwin almost fears Armin has forgotten until he hears footsteps behind him in the hallway.

He turns to face Armin as he approaches. Erwin opens his arms, and Armin sheds his composure like a cloak, rushing into Erwin’s embrace, snuggling into his chest, his eyes tightly closed in relief (Erwin can feel his breath shaking slightly as he inhales). Erwin buries his nose in Armin’s hair, breathing in a scent he hadn’t known he’d missed. Then Armin tilts his head back, his lips finding Erwin’s, and they kiss, deeply and warmly and full of five months of longing and missing and worry and want.

Armin place his hands on Erwin’s hips and pushes gently, guiding Erwin back into the depths of his room, and Erwin allows himself to be pushed until the backs of his thighs press into his mattress and he’s falling over backward, Armin following the motion as far as he can without breaking the kiss, moving in between Erwin’s open legs. Erwin drops fully to his back with a soft thump, and Armin giggles slightly, cheeks flushed and eyes averted. His giggles die off as he spots the chessboard, folded neatly and still perched on the end of Erwin’s nightstand, same as always. Armin backs out and moves over to take it, running his fingers over it before glancing back to Erwin, who’s pulled himself into a sitting position.

“You took good care of it,” he says. Erwin nods (the wood gleams dully in the light that filters in from the open door, the time Erwin’s spent single-handedly maintaining its oiled protection having well paid off).

“It’s yours,” is all the explanation he offers.

“…thank you,” Armin says, opening the board and taking out one of the carved pieces, similarly shined. It’s the white king. Armin runs his thumb over the king’s face a few times, before suddenly looking up to Erwin (their eyes meet instantly because Erwin is caught off-guard, so engrossed was he in observing every slight movement of Armin’s; the way his eyes flick as he regards the figure, the way his hair cascades over his shoulder, the way his chest rustles the leather straps that enable his flight). “One game?” he asks.

Erwin inclines his head and Armin empties the pieces onto the bed. He begins to set up while Erwin turns on a lantern and closes the door (exchanging one source of light for the other, but the brightest element in the room, he thinks, is always Armin). When he returns to his bed, the board is completely set up, with Armin seated at the black end, cross-legged (his boots rest by the foot of the bed, where Erwin’s soon join them, though Erwin does not trust himself to sit the same way Armin does, and settled instead for leaving his legs hanging off the edge of the bed, feeling for all the world like he’s five) (that feeling, though, is due at least in part to the giddy happiness of Armin’s presence). Erwin extends a hand to make a move, only to find his fingers trapped by Armin’s.

“I can-” he begins, cut off by a light squeeze of palm against palm.

“I know,” is Armin’s reply, affection audible in his voice as he rubs his thumb against Erwin’s. Erwin relents into a smile, returning the warm pressure on his hand.

“Pawn to D4,” he says, watching as Armin moves the pawn and then his own. It’s so familiar it hurts, the dance of black and white across the board as the lantern flickers behind them. Erwin holds Armin’s hand tighter, and Armin echoes the motion. They play the entire game though, until Armin’s king topples, and Erwin is pulled into another kiss, gentler but with no less longing for that. They’re both breathing hard by the end of it, and Armin briefly lets go of Erwin’s hand to hurriedly pack up the chessboard once again, careful even in his scramble not to break anything; Erwin helps as much as he can and soon the board is back on the nightstand and Armin is straddling Erwin’s lap, his hands running along Erwin’s back as he runs kisses down his throat.

Erwin lets out a soft groan once Armin stops. He leans back and smoothes out the front of Erwin’s shirt under the straps, before pushing the uniform jacket off his shoulders (Erwin begins to remove Armin’s, and is helped along when he finds task harder with only one hand). Armin unbuckles both their straps and unbuttons Erwin’s shirt through another kiss, and Erwin shudders as Armin grazes fingers across his bare chest, pinpricks of cold against his flushed body.

“Erwin…” Armin says, hushed, and Erwin blinks away the haze of pleasure surrounding his senses as he focuses on Armin’s eyes, the dim light of the lantern lighting them only as bright as the sky at midnight. “Is this okay?” he asks, his voice tremulous and wary (and abruptly Erwin is reminded that he is not only superior officer but also years more of amassed experience that Armin doesn’t have).

“I trust you, Armin,” he says. Armin searches his face, giving Erwin the time to run his hand through Armin’s silky hair, time enough to gently undo the binding that holds back his half-ponytail. “It’s fine as long as you think so as well.”

Something clicks, then, and Armin moves in for another kiss, and the next minutes become a blur of pants and groans and shed clothing and leather straps and warm, wet kisses mounting into dragging touches and heavenly friction. Somewhere along the line Erwin stops thinking, allowing instead his body to react for him to Armin’s probing fingers and replying in kind (there’s no lubricant- a reminder of Erwin’s earlier apprehension- and so they make do with Erwin’s hand on their joined cocks while Armin’s fingers run through Erwin’s hair, stopping at the nape of his neck and pulling him in for another kiss). They finish, Erwin sitting with his back against the headboard , Armin sitting curled up in his lap, the blankets of Erwin’s bed pulled to mostly cover them both. The lantern sputters as its last oil is burnt away, the room now lit solely from the light of the uncurtained window. Erwin runs his hand up and down Armin’s flank as Armin taps out a rhythm against his collarbone, the soft patter of his fingers light and soothing.

At some point Erwin stops moving, and Armin turns his eyes to his, full of concern and a twinge of something else that may or may not be fear (of rejection; it’s written clearly across Armin’s face, and Erwin chases it off with a soft brush of his thumb).

“Armin?” he breathes, not so much interrupting the warm silence as adding to it another layer.

“Yeah?” Armin answers, threading a hand over Erwin’s undercut and into the longer strands of blond hair.

“Don’t… don’t leave me here alone. Please.”

And that’s it. Never has Erwin felt so exposed, so open. His emotional barriers, built so many years ago, are gone, receded into the background area of his soul, baring everything to the world (like the ground has dropped out from under him only he doesn’t even have his gear; he recalls feeling this way, months ago, as he contemplated the gifted chessboard, but now the sensation is amplified to the extreme). Because Armin could say no. He could lie. He could decide it’s not in his best interests to stay, to continue keeping company with a lonely cripple so often more concerned with the abstract idea of humanity than with an one human in particular (Armin has changed that, but how does Erwin express such a sentiment? He doesn’t want to make false promises to Armin; he can’t say that he won’t be hurt, that he won’t die, that the benefit of humanity won’t always come first regardless of his feelings, can’t say that if push came to shove then yes, he would let Armin go, albeit unwillingly and only after deciding that was the last recourse? Those words aren’t exactly reassuring, and Erwin knows it). The split-second it takes for Erwin to think, Armin uses to wrap his arms tightly around him, squeezing with enough pressure to keep Erwin grounded, reminded that he’s _there_ , breathing and alive, next to Erwin and immobile.

“I won’t,” Armin says, and that’s all he needs to say, because Erwin can read that he _means_ it in the intensity of his gaze and the way he shyly makes eye contact and leans back in before whispering ‘I won’t, never’ softly against Erwin’s lips. And if there’s anyone that Erwin wants to put his trust into, it is Armin; and Erwin decides to make that choice, to allow himself the luxury of believing whole-heartedly that the words coming out of Armin’s mouth are true, and it’s both relief and trepidation that he feels in that instant.

Love, usually such a foreign word for Erwin, drapes itself heavily around Armin, wrapping itself tight around Erwin's heart in a way that makes his breath catch. Erwin draws in air, and buries his nose in the crook where Armin's neck meets his shoulder, seeking comfort and reassurance and protection (he finds all three in the hand that rises up behind his back, stroking smoothly through his hair, and the arm that wraps itself around him just slightly above his waist, and the cheek that comes to rest atop his head, a warm weight Erwin is thankful and willing to support).

Erwin counts the time in the rise and fall of Armin's chest, his remaining hand checking that against the metronome of his heart. The word love drifts to the forefront of his mind once more, and Erwin re-adjusts his position, planting a kiss on Armin's collarbone in the process.

"I love you," he murmurs, lips mere millimeters from Armin's skin.

There's a few seconds of silence, and Erwin counts the beats of Armin's heart under his hand. Twenty-three.

"I love you, too."

Face still wreathed by Armin's warm scent, Erwin smiles, and for the first time since forever, he feels truly at peace.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I would just like to thank my lovely beta, [Kenjiandco](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Kenjiandco/pseuds/Kenjiandco) for... beta-ing. And doing it super-fucking-awesomely. Yeah. <3
> 
> AHA THE LAST CHAPTER IS CALLED CHECK BECAUSE THEY'RE POISED TO TAKE EACH OTHER'S KINGS AND THEN THE WHOLE THING IS CALLED CHECKMATE BECAUSE THEN THEY _DID._ ~~what are you talking about that was the plan all along ahahahaha i didn't make anything up just now nooope~~
> 
> Also, originally this was going to be a one-shot, and I might revert it to that format later? We'll see.


End file.
